The air grew taught, the silence stretching thin, ready to snap. The Blood Moon, which had been a malevolent eye hanging in the purple sky, now seemed to open fully. It reached its zenith, its highest and most terrible hour, and the world below was plunged into a crimson hell. The light was no longer a tint; it was a physical, suffocating presence, a glare the color of blood that flattened the world and cast no shadows. A low, oppressive hum vibrated in the very stone of the valley, the sound of the world's natural laws being twisted and rewritten by a dark, ascendant power.
The forces of shadow, empowered by the celestial alignment, rejoiced. The faint, smoking remains of the defeated Gloom Knights began to stir, their forms trying to coalesce from the dissipating smoke. The very ground seemed to groan, and the air grew thick with a cold that had nothing to do with the night.
Asmodeus smiled. It was a look of pure, artistic ecstasy. He drew in a deep, appreciative breath, as if tasting a fine vintage. "Perfection," he whispered. "The precise moment of absolute despair. The perfect light for my masterpiece."
He did not summon more minions. He did not weave complex spells. He simply raised his claw-tipped hands to the crimson sky, and the true nature of his power was finally unleashed.
It was not an attack. It was a thirst.
A wave of invisible, silent energy pulsed outwards from him, washing over the entire valley. It was not a wave of force, but of absolute negation. The small fires that still burned in the ruined homes were instantly extinguished, their flames turning to black smoke and then nothing. The few remaining brave villagers who stood at their barricades let out collective groans of agony as their strength, their will, their very life force, was siphoned away, leaving them trembling and weak. The grass in the square, already trampled and blood-soaked, withered in an instant, turning to grey, brittle dust. Asmodeus was drinking the life of Ordon.
Korgon and Link felt it as a profound, soul-deep cold. The strength that had filled their limbs, the fire of their defiance, was being leeched away, leaving behind a hollow, aching weakness.
"Now," Asmodeus purred, his form seeming to shimmer, his power swelling to a terrifying new magnitude. "Let the true lesson begin."
Korgon, his pride and his duty a fire that even this power could not fully extinguish, let out a defiant roar. "I will shatter you, demon!" He charged, his movements now heavy, sluggish, his war hammer feeling like a mountain in his own hands. He was the unbreakable guardian, and he would be the shield for the boy, even if it cost him everything.
Asmodeus did not even deign to move out of the way. He watched the charging Goron with a look of detached amusement. Korgon swung his mighty hammer, a blow that could have felled a fortress.
And Asmodeus simply caught it.
He caught the colossal iron head of the war hammer in one, slender, open palm. The impact, which should have sent a shockwave through the valley, was completely absorbed, a soundless, final stop. Korgon stared in stunned disbelief, his most powerful attack rendered utterly meaningless.
"Such crude, percussive art," Asmodeus tutted, his grip tightening, the metal of the hammer beginning to groan and bend. "There is no subtlety."
With a flick of his wrist, he twisted the hammer, wrenching it from Korgon's grasp and sending it flying into the darkness. Before the Goron could even react, Asmodeus moved. He was a blur of shadow and grace. He spun, and a blade of pure, solidified darkness, colder than any steel, materialized in his hand.
He did not aim for the Goron's head or his heart. He aimed for his strength.
The shadow blade sliced through the air with a sound like tearing silk. It passed through Korgon's right arm, just below the shoulder. A Goron's body was as hard as granite, a thing that could turn aside any mortal blade. But this was not a mortal blade. It cut through rock and sinew as if they were nothing.
Korgon's right arm, the source of his legendary power, was severed in a single, clean, impossible stroke. It fell to the ground with a heavy, sickening thud, crumbling into stone and dust on impact. The Goron stared at the stump of his shoulder, a look of pure, uncomprehending shock on his stony face, before a roar of pure, absolute agony was ripped from his throat and he collapsed to his knees.
Link, seeing his master, his friend, so brutally and effortlessly dismembered, felt something inside him break. The cold focus, the disciplined training—it all burned away, leaving only a pure, white-hot, incandescent rage. With a silent scream that was all the more terrible for its lack of sound, he charged.
He was no longer a hero. The Master Sword blazed in his hand, its holy light a furious, desperate nova against the overwhelming dark. He was a streak of green and blue, his every attack aimed with a singular, killing intent.
Asmodeus met him with a joyous, artistic fervor. He parried Link's furious, desperate strikes with an almost lazy grace, his shadow blade a blur of motion. "Yes!" the demon hissed, his embers-like eyes glowing with delight as their blades clashed. "This is it! The legendary fury of the hero! The desperate, beautiful rage of a soul about to be broken! More!"
Link fought with everything he had. He used every technique Korgon had taught him, every instinct his blood possessed. But Asmodeus, empowered by the Blood Moon, was simply on another plane of existence. He was stronger. He was faster. He was a master, and Link was still just a child.
With a final, contemptuous twist of his blade, Asmodeus disarmed him. The Master Sword was sent flying, its blue light extinguishing as it skittered across the stone square, leaving Link defenseless.
The demon did not hesitate. He thrust his hand forward, and a spear of pure, unholy shadow materialized, piercing straight through Link's right shoulder, pinning him to the ground in a spray of his own blood. The pain was absolute, a fire that consumed his entire being. He cried out, the sound swallowed by the oppressive, crimson night.
The battle was over. The heroes were defeated. The villagers watched from their broken homes, their last flicker of hope utterly extinguished.
Asmodeus stood over the small, broken body of the hero, a triumphant artist admiring his finished work. Link was pinned, bleeding, the light fading from his eyes. Korgon was on his knees, disarmed and dismembered, a broken mountain of grief.
"There," Asmodeus purred, his voice resonating with a deep, profound satisfaction. "A masterpiece. A valley of hope, a legendary guardian, a fated hero… all broken. All turned to despair." He savored the absolute silence, the perfect, beautiful agony of the moment.
He raised his shadow blade, its dark edge gleaming in the crimson moonlight, and aimed its tip at Link's heart for the final, killing blow.